Album
by akikos-wok
Summary: A growing collection of short, stream of consciousness pieces delving into the minds of various mystics in Château Aiguille. Warnings: sexual promiscuity, pairings of all orientations, and generally adult themes.
1. le fantôme

**Album**

by: akikos-wok

DISCLAIMER:

SaGa Frontier is copyright of Square-Enix CO. Its characters do not belong to me and I make no money by messing with them.

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le fantôme**

Immortality is an alluring and fragile curse. I say it is alluring for what mere mortal could resist eternity, resist abolishing all fear or thought of aging, of sickness, of forever fading gradually towards death? I say it is a curse _because_ it is eternal. There is no change. If I am unhappy, thus shall I remain. There can be no escape.

Though this is not entirely true. I could escape. I could end everything through suicide. But this would be an ultimate end. No hereafter. No heaven or hell for the soulless vessel.

The defining aspect of my curse is its frailty. My immortality guarantees only exemption from death by natural causes. I cannot age or contract illness. But I can die. More accurately, I can be killed. However, if I am killed, that is the end. I shall diminish into nothingness and feel no more.

So instead of destroying my fear of death, eternity has magnified it beyond the reaches of human capacity.

This is what I realize as I watch him. As I see him take another girl, rendered witless by his overwhelming charisma, see him drain her, and capture her youthful beauty. For a moment she struggles in his embrace, gasping, coming out of the swoon, realizing for the final second of her mortal life that she is being murdered. Then her body goes limp and she is dead. But she will live again, though not as before.

She had no choice. Her fate was sealed the moment she wandered into his sight. When he decided he wanted her, she was already his. He always gets what he wants. No human, male or female can resist him.

I tell myself that I too was seduced by the Charm Lord. I like to think that one day he saw me bathing in a river, deep in the lush forests of Shingrow, took one look at my porcelain skin, soft, slender frame, and plumes of wet raven hair and decided then and there that I must be his. Then he came to my chamber in the palace one star less winter night, gathered me in his arms, and carried me away to his château where, under his spell, I gave myself willingly to him as he sucked my mortality from my pulsing neck.

I like to think this, but I know it isn't true. I know the truth, and it disgusts me. It is a bitter fruit that my mind sugarcoats to make it palatable.

Orlouge did find me in Shingrow. At that time he had no region, no château, no entourage of lordlings. He did have a carriage, but it was a farm cart in comparison to the coach he has now. One day he rode into what was then a flourishing kingdom and found the restless young queen, smashing a ceramic vase on the stone wall surrounding the palace. Who knows exactly what prompted her violence? She had a vicious temper, which she exercised frequently. She hated her life and everything about it.

I was this wretched creature so unappreciative of her good fortune. I should have been thrilled that I was a queen at all, having been raised an aristocrat in Kyo. Royalty usually only married other royalty, but the King of Shingrow, who had seen me at the court of the King of Kyo, was so enamored by my beauty and poise that he simply had to marry me. I am convinced that this marriage marked the beginning of the downfall of the monarchy.

I cannot recall my husband's name, but I remember I did not think he really loved me. What is worse is that I remember I did not care. When Orlouge arrived he did not find me a sobbing maiden, forced into a marriage of profit, longing desperately for her freedom. There was nothing vulnerable about me; I was not waiting for my true love to come and rescue me from my fate.

All I was waiting for was power.

Being queen was not what I had imagined it would be. Oh I was quite influential, dwelled in splendor, dressed in the latest and finest, dined solely on gourmet cuisine, drank only the finest of wines, and everyone obeyed my every command. Including my husband. That was the source of my discontent. My king was never belligerent enough for me; he never even objected to my needless tantrums, let alone threatened me with physical punishment. I could never understand why no one ever challenged his supremacy.

What I had envisioned was not the secure and glamourous life of the established monarch. I wanted the life of a conquerer. The life I saw in Orlouge.

He had just murdered and absorbed three of the high ranking Lords of his clan. Orlouge had been a low class mystic, but immensely powerful. Other mystics did not recognize this, for his power was unique. He was the Charm Lord long before he officially assumed the title.

Maybe I was attracted by his power. I certainly found him beautiful, and know he aroused my sexual desires. Yet a part of me is vaguely aware that this attraction was entirely natural, and not the work of Orlouge's spell. For I saw in his power, my own power, the power of beauty.

After all, the king had married me because I was beautiful.

Sometimes I wonder, if it was perhaps I who seduced Orlouge and not the other way around.

He did ask me if I would be his, if I wanted to become a mystic and live with him forever. And I of course said yes, for this is precisely what I had wanted him to ask. Our affair had been brief and free of scandal. My husband was too naive to suspect. So long as he could behold my features doused in sunlight for an hour or two each day, he was content. We did not share a bed, which made it quite easy for Orlouge and I to meet at night, for if we so desired the comfort of aforementioned furniture it was always available, and if I stole out of the palace to see him, my husband would not miss me.

So every night for three weeks we met, and I would kiss and caress him, and he would hold me and tell me of his dreams of conquest. And the more he talked, the more I kissed. With every divulgence that passed his lips, the caressing increased, grew more fervent, and ultimately we would make love, our bodies intertwining passionately, desperately under the Shingrow moon.

The night he made me was the night the kingdom fell. With our sites set on Facinaturu, the Region where the last of Orlouge's clan dwelled, we needed energy. We took what we needed. Took as much and ten fold more.

It was I who took the king. He died silently, never fighting back, never even trying. He accepted his death, just as he had accepted his life. But in absorbing his life energy I did not absorb any of his complaisance.

What made me think even for moment that I would be happy forever with Orlouge? That I could live forever, thrive forever, love forever? Perhaps it was the knowledge that I would be young and beautiful always, never age, never wither, never lose a fraction of that beauty, my greatest power. Did I know that never aging meant never changing?

After we conquered Fancinaturu and took up residence in Château Aiguille, I was certain my life was about to become all I had dreamed it would be. There was only Orlouge, myself, and several others who had joined in the uprising against the last of the legitimate mystic lords. And of them, only one was permitted to dwell in the palace, and I rarely ever saw him, so massive and labyrinthine the place. It seemed to me that my world now consisted solely of Orlouge, his solely of me, and the world was ours for the taking if we wanted it, so limitless was our power.

Deterioration began slowly. Orlouge said we needed more people worthy of status to populate the palace. People to advise us, help us maintain order among the people, temporarily reign in our stead should we ever travel. He brought only young men at first. Beautiful young men, clad in fashionable lace and velvet coats with epaulettes and lustrous eyes. And this did not vex me for I did not know then that he gave his sex to these glittering lordlings and palace guards near as often as he did me. Then he brought a girl. He told me she was to be the head of the house keeping staff, advisor to the homely, clammy skinned maids who trekked up from Rootville twice a day to make sure the palace remained as sparkling as its inhabitants.

And I believed him. Believed him because every night he summoned me. Every night I was in his bed, bleeding blue from my throat, bleeding for him. And every so often, him bleeding for me, my piked fangs breaking his porcelain skin as I stuggled from beneath him, fought for dominance.

Another girl was brought not a month later. This one lovely like the first, but older, more refined, possessed of an elegant, proud beauty not unlike my own. This one he said was to be a companion to one of his lordlings, whom I did not know he was sleeping with and we did know were sleeping with each other. He said the next girl was a cook, though we did not eat. By the sixth he stopped making excuses. By that time, I had not been his bed mate for near twelve years.

I think I was sad at first. Sad to have been deceived, sad to have been naive. Yet my sadness waned fleetly and was replaced by disillusion. I ceased to long for Orlouge's touch, lost interest in the glory of Facinaturu. Any charm he or it had held sway over me dissipated along with my ignorance.

But then again, it was never there to begin with.

The charm robs mystics of their mortal memory. They neither know nor care to know who they were, what they were, what they might have been. They remember nothing and no one. For them there is only Orlouge. They realize he takes many lovers, yet still they are consumed with him. Many do not waste away their days and nights with longing, but none the less, they are always aware of his charm, his power. Even the few who covertly dislike, even despise the Charm Lord, when not in his irresistible presence, express no interest in their human history.

I watch mysticism change the girl, limp and broken in Orlouge's arms. Layers of straight, inelegant brown hair turn to torrents of sumptuous, glossy curls. Inherent imperfections of barely post-adolescent skin disappear and thin, pallid cheeks fill out to round and rosy. There is nothing real about this girl; she is a porcelain doll, a collectors item. Another treasure in Orlouge's trove.

I am not a treasure. Oh I am beautiful, more beautiful than my human self. My eyes are black almonds, lost in a jungle of coiling lashes. My skin is firm, yet soft as an infant's, and forever sun-kissed. My hair is violet, plush and cascading. I say it is violet because violet sounds more real than purple. People have violet eyes, not purple.

I am real. I chose to become a mystic and I choose to endure it, fearing death. I know now that I was foolish. But I do _know_.

If I had remained human, I would be dead, maybe miserably so. But perhaps I would have matured, realized my good fortune and learned to ignore the things that galled me. I am certain I could never have loved the king. I am certain he never would have betrayed me. I could have ruled a kingdom peacefully, ostensibly by his side, actually on my own. Instead I destroyed one and took another. One that holds me captive now and laughs as I long for impermanence, while the rest of its prisoners are blinded by its everlasting splendor.

Only I can see. Remember. Though centuries have cast misty shadows over my memory, it is still there, shining mutedly. But shining nonetheless. It is there and it is mine.

Ignorance made me happy once. It will not do it again. I will not allow it.

Freedom is the only happiness. Mortality is freedom. Freedom to change. Mystics have no such freedom. If I hold on to what is mine, much as it sickens me, I might remember how to change, and break free. Some day.


	2. la lionne

**la lionne**

I am alone in the arena, standing. Waiting. Waiting for my opponent. At least my opponent in theory. This is the training arena, and my opponent is not my enemy. No blood, blue or crimson, shall ever taint the translucent rose pattern. In theory.

The intricate design reflects in down-turned eyes. I study it. It is stained glass and I wonder if I could break it. Fall hard enough, slash downward and miss, connect with the surface and shatter it.

I am bored waiting. I know this because it is only when I am bored that such thoughts cross my mind. Defacing the beautiful property of my Lord Orlouge would merit ardent punishment. I would never do anything to displease my lord.

I hear footsteps on the stairs leading up to the arena platform and turn. It is not who I was expecting but I must speak to alleviate my boredom.

"Rei, what are you doing here?" I ask.

"Am I not allowed to go where I choose?" is her reply. "If Orlouge has instituted some new rule which confines princesses to their chambers when he does not desire them in his, please, enlighten me."

"He has not," I say, though I sense her sarcasm.

"I know you're no fool Lion," says she. She walks past me to the far edge of the arena, gold sandals clinking against the glass. Then she is silent, just standing, staring off at nothing.

I wonder what she is thinking about, and wonder what she wishes to tell me. Mysterious though she may be, she would not have come here without a reason. I hesitate to ask for fear of angering her. She is Orlouge's first princess, said to be as temperamental as she is beautiful. I am the thirty-ninth, and skilled as I am with a sword, she could best me. Given her unpredictable nature, I am not certain she wouldn't.

"What do you want Rei?" I ask finally, cautiously.

She turns back to me black eyes gleaming, pink lips curling into an unreadable half-smile. She begins to stare intently and I have no doubt she is examining my face. I look away, addled. I draw my sword and slice once through the air. I rock back on my heals, thrust forward through the head of an invisible foe. Her eyes follow me.

"No," she says plainly, and I am relieved the silence is broken. "I simply don't see any resemblance." She grimaces, her brow wrinkling intensely.

I turn sharply to her, baffled by her previous statement. "What?"

"I said I don't see any resemblance." She pauses long enough for me to think about getting annoyed. "To your sister, that is," she finishes.

"Sister?" I ask, more confused and still teetering on annoyance. "What do you mean?"

"I mean the girl child born of the same parents as you!" Rei snaps, air of obscurity dissipating, now clearly chafed.

Instead of frightening me as I thought it might, her tone pushes my mood over the borderline and into annoyance and I snap back, "I mean how would you have any idea what my sister looked like? How do you even know I have a sister?"

She smiles, that same obscure half-smile, calm again. "I know you don't remember her. But I was made long before you, Lion. And I remember your sister, though admittedly when you were made, she must have only been five or six. She's grown into a lovely young woman, and apparently Orlouge thinks so too. Now she'll stay that way for all eternity."

Now I too am calm and interested. "What do you mean?" I ask.

"I mean Orlouge's forty-sixth princess made just hours ago is your little sister," she replies. "And she doesn't look anything like you. But I suppose, that's not so surprising. If I remember correctly, you looked quite different as a human."

As a human. Of course I know I was human once. We all were. But it has nothing to do with who I am now. And it disgusts me to think I actually tried to recall the my sister's childhood face.

"I don't believe you," I say, though I do. But I don't want to believe her. I don't want the connection to my former life.

"It doesn't matter. It's true," she says. She makes her way over to the stairs and starts down, pink satin train trailing behind her.

"I don't understand why you're telling me this!" I call after her.

She stops, turns and looks up at me. "I just thought you might want to know. I thought maybe it would help you remember."

"Remember what?" I half-demand, though I can guess at her reply.

As expected, "Your humanity," is what she answers.

"Why? Why should I remember? It doesn't have anything to do with me!" I cry.

"If you don't want to remember, then don't," she says. "But your past is always with you, even if you have no future." She turns and continues down the stairs.

I know she wants me to ask her what she means by that, but I don't want to know. Knowing would lead to more thinking, and thinking is dangerous. I have never learned to control my thoughts. I am a swordsman, and know only action. I raise my sword and begin slashing again, engaged in combat with the air.

"Oh and Lion," I hear her call, but I do not stop to look at her. "I almost forgot. I was sent to tell you that Ildon won't be coming. Orlouge had something he needed to discuss with him. Alone."

I hear her footsteps echo and fade. When I know she is gone, my rage overflows and roaring, I thrust my sword down into the arena. The glass chips. I stumble back, startled, my fury quieted.

Slowly, I get down on my knees, lay my sword gently beside me and examine the damage I have done. It is minor; a mere scratch and a dislodged particle of glass, which I roll between my fingers.

This is the first real damage I have done. I have dueled with Ciato, Ildon, Zozma, Rastaban, all the lesser lords countless times, but I have never injured them. Those duels were mockeries. I have killed and absorbed monsters in the upper reaches of Château Aiguille. But that was for the sake of survival. If I do not absorb energy I will perish.

But this. This is real. This is damage, genuine damage, damage only. There is no justification for this, no reason why it had to be. It just is.

I sense some one materializing behind me and for a moment I imagine it is Orlouge coming to execute me for disobedience. When I look over my shoulder it is Rastaban. His rapier hangs from a sheath at his side.

"I thought you could use a new sparring partner," he says, habitual smirk coming to his face. He is almost as strange as Rei. But he is not as mysterious; I know the limits of his power and I do not fear him.

"I suppose," I say, rising and taking my sword from off the ground. I steal a quick glance at the chipped glass and wonder whether or not Rastaban will notice. Wonder if maybe he already has noticed.

"Orlouge _is_ so selfish," he says. "Always thinking of himself, never showing any consideration for other people. He thinks he owns everyone and everything in this whole damn castle."

"Doesn't he?" I ask, though secretly I know he doesn't own me. If I can do something other than survive, then I am not just a possession. At least not entirely.

Before Rastaban can answer two guards materialize on the landing just below the arena.

"Lord Rastaban, we require your assistance. There is some trouble with monsters down in Rootville. We should like Lord Ildon's help as well."

"Ildon, is preoccupied," Rasatban says, and I sense an edge of resentment in his tone. "Princess Lion is more qualified anyhow. We'll be much better off with her assistance."

He glances down at the cracked glass, then at me, smirking again. "I am certain Princess Lion is an exceptionally skilled warrior. Go find Zozma. We'll meet you in the village."

"Yes sir," one of the guards says. They both bow ceremoniously and fade away.

"This will be your first time in a real battle, won't it Lion?" Rastaban inquires, advancing down the stairs. "Understand that eliminating these monsters is your only order. Absorb what you need, and kill the rest."

I begin to follow him. He must be walking out of respect for me. I have not yet learned to teleport.

"Aren't you afraid Orlouge will be angry with you for allowing one of his princesses outside the castle?"

"Afraid? Of course not!" He stops walking and laughs briefly. "All of the monsters will have been destroyed by the time he's through with Ildon and you will personally have killed at least half of them. I should say he'll be rather pleased with me for "discovering" your talent. I think you'll soon be his most prized warrior."

I stop behind him and look at the sword still clutched in my hand. If I am a warrior, then I shall be free to do damage. To alter the world, make something happen. But without my sword, I cannot do this. Yet it is _my_ sword. So long as it is mine I can change things, within great limits, but I can still make a difference. I can leave a mark on life, just as I have left a mark on Château Aiguille. So long as my sword is mine I am alive.


	3. mort

**mort**

It is night in Facinaturu. Well, night only in the sense that this is the time when the few humans passing through the region sleep. It is always night in Facinaturu. Well, night in the sense that it is always dark, and if there were stars they might be shining.

It is night for Château Aiguille. _Its_ definition of night, however, is not the dark time when all diurnal creatures rest to rejuvenate. Night is whenever the Charm Lord decides it is time for sex.

This does not happen as often as one might fear. Orlouge does have such an enormous appetite for sex. All mystics do, actually, it's just that Orlouge is the least covert about it. Perhaps others would be too, if our dear Charm Lord had not made it very clear several centuries ago that all mystics of his creation were his sexual property and were to lie with him whenever he so desired or face dire consequences. He never actually banned us from sleeping together at all, just from sleeping with whomever he wanted to sleep with. And frequently, it seems to me, he chooses bedmates that he knows are sleeping with persons other than him, and this causes frustration and jealousy, which he just adores. So all the mystics in Château Aiguille try to pretend that, all though they are having sex, it is just something to do to pass the time.

Which is slightly amusing because the second after Orlouge seals his chamber door at least one party in each of the usual "couples" rushes frantically to find the other. And they disappear until just before Orlouge's lover for the night emerges from his room to carry out whatever task the Charm Lord has just bid them. Such a predictable cycle!

I laugh quietly to myself at all I know. I don't have to listen to hear Zozma behind Ciato's door begging (pathetically yet still seductively) the once again un-chosen Lord to sleep with him. Ciato gives in eventually and reluctantly, always seething, always cursing whoever Orlouge is with. He agrees so he can relieve his frustration, which Zozma, true to his origins as one of Orlouge's clan, doesn't mind. Anything to bed the one you desire.

I don't have to look to see Rastaban creeping through the shadows to Ildon's room, noiselessly opening the door and closing it behind him. But he is not as pathetic as Zozma. His lust for Ildon is immense, but I suspect his love may be greater. And he is so tortured by Orlouge, who obviously realizes how much the pretty black prince means to him, since he choses Ildon at least once a human month. At least by my calculation.

I confess I have somewhat lost track of time. I've been here for so long yet I have no idea how long it has actually been. I have an approximation which is more than most people here can say. I know I was among Orlouge's first collection of Lords and that Princess Lion, the thirty-ninth princess was essentially made captain of the guard ten years ago not long after her sister, who is now called White Rose, was changed. Ciato was made a mystic not long after me, maybe twenty years, and was for I'd say another thirty years undoubtedly Orlouge's favorite Lord. But now I'm back centuries before Princess Lion was even made a mystic.

The problem is, in order for me to determine exactly how long I have been in Château Aiguille for, I must determine exactly when I was made. And that is impossible because I don't remember not being a mystic, though I am most certainly aware that for at least thirty years I wasn't, as that is how old I guess I physically appear to be. I can hardly even recall my first few days, maybe weeks or even years as a mystic as I was so preoccupied with Orlouge. His charm does that to a person, makes them fawn over him, makes them devote themselves single-mindedly to his service. The effect is especially potent on humans, and newly made mystics have lingering humanity. Sometimes I think that charm wears off as soon as the new mystic has abandoned all attachment to human life, forgotten every aspect of it and doesn't care that he (or now it seems more frequently she) has. I certainly don't.

Yet I do find a strange satisfaction in hoarding details of the human lives of mystics made after me. Like I said, I don't give a damn about my own human life and certainly don't regret having it taken from me. But human life in general fascinates me. Or at least stimulates my mind in a fashion which I think resembles fascination.

Currently it is this boy who fascinates me, the one lying paralyzed in sleep on a flowerbed in the courtyard so to speak of Orlouge's personal quarters. He is a mystic now, but will sleep most likely for several more years before he awakens transformed. The pretty youth was on a scouting mission in Mosperiburg when Orlouge, en route to a conference with the Ring Lord, noticed him. Virigl would have noticed him eventually had Orlouge not snatched him up, thrown him in his carriage and drained his companions for energy. What Virgil might have done to him remains a mystery but as he is also a low rank mystic of Orlouge's clan, it would not surprise me if it were something at least remotely sexual.

This boy was a member of a newly formed guard unit, a guard not affiliated with any single kingdom, but available to serve any kingdom that will pay them. I am not entirely clear as to how the system works, but I know that each kingdom pays a set amount of gold each year, which goes towards the maintenance of the organization and salaries of its members. By paying the yearly fee the kingdom gains access to the services of the organization. How strange! It seems now that peaceful coexistence has been established among the kingdoms the world is heading towards centralized law-enforcement, since the same guards work in every kingdom. I wonder if universal law will be next.

Really this is all I know about him. Sometimes I learn the human names of new mystics before they are changed and I make certain to remember them, though I am careful not to let Orlouge know that I know. Or that I care, for if he knew I cared and hoarded names in the way that I do he would stop saying them in my presence. But to know the human names of mystics is to know more about them they they will ever know. Their names connect them to their pasts. Perhaps some day I shall endeavor to discover the full histories of my collected names. I would have found out the name of this poor creature, as I was among Orlouge's escorts on his journey in Mosperiburg, only my lord leapt upon the boy and bit his throat before he could even gasp, let alone introduce himself.

I say boy, but I suppose "young man" would be a more accurate description, for he is at least twenty years old. He is very youthful looking, though some of that I suspect is a result of his newly acquired mysticism. Surely he would want people to refer to generically refer to him as a "young man" rather than a "boy", especially in the face of his youthful appearance. I imagine he may have adamantly pointed out to many an ignorant person that he was in fact a grown man and not an adolescent.

He stirs and I am surprised for, as I said, I do not expect him to awake for at least a decade. He has shifted now to lie flat on his back, a hand resting near the base of his neck. His lacy collar is viscously torn and stained with his red human blood. I notice the faint and fading scar left where he was bitten. Two small dots, dull and fleshy pink, right in the middle of his throat.

Odd and careless placement. Orlouge is usually much more cautious with his precious victims. Wouldn't want to do any permanent damage. Because any damage would be exactly that.

I kneel down and lean in closer, intrigued by the scar. It's fainter now than it was when when I first made note of it and every moment disappearing. This is how it will be with any injury he receives from now on. A scraped knee, a cut hand, a stab through the heart; it's all the same. Unless decapitated, or say, hacked into a thousand pieces by a swarm of living swords, in which case he needn't worry about the permanence or impermanence of the damage. Or anything at all.

I reach my hand out and fleetingly brush the now near invisible scar with my fingertips. It has no texture of its own and feels identical to the soft yet taught skin of the neck it blemishes. I muse for a moment that it might stay, that this man will always be the imperfect mystic, the one mystic who is not totally unflawed. The black sheep of a perfect race.

I place that same hand on my own neck wondering if I can determine where I was bitten. But I already know that I can't. I can't even remember where Orlouge drained me the last time I was in his bed. Anyhow that was years ago I think. And I don't care. I fear I've become bored of the over-sexed lifestyle of my kind.

The newly made mystic stirs again, face contorting, lips parting as if to groan in discomfort, perhaps in unconscious reaction to something witnessed in dreams, but no sound escapes them. Uncertain of the accuracy of my observation I prod him gently, not wishing to wake him, but merely disturb his slumber enough that he might mumble a complaint. That is, if he is capable of mumbling or vocally producing any sound at all and I suspect he may not be.

He shifts restlessly, subconsciously aware of my disturbance, brow wrinkling. A noiseless breath is all that passes his fleshy pink lips and I feel quite certain that my recent assumption was correct: the boy is mute. Though now I am overcome with wondering whether this muteness is a bi-product of Orlouge's uncharacteristically careless work or if this hitherto human could say the same of his lack of a voice. Which in that case he certainly couldn't, because he'd never have had one to tell with.

Of course I wonder if it's even possible for a mystic to cause such permanent damage in the process of creating another as rupturing the vocal cords, as I assume is the case here. Normally human's scars, illnesses and other mortal trifles disappear as they transform. Which convolutedly supports the theory that the damage to this one's voice _must_ have been caused by Orlouge because otherwise he would now be able to speak. I am quite certain that a good half-century back Orlouge took a blind princess. I never quite caught her human name but I remember how remarkably clear her eyes looked when she awoke a mystic and observed the world with them for the first time, though unaware that she'd never seen before.

Then again maybe she had. For all I know her blindness had resulted from a disease contracted childhood and technically she'd just stopped being afflicted by it. So if the boy had been born mute he would stay mute. _If_ it is even possible for a child to be a natural born mute. Can something go wrong in development that would result in such a handicap?

My only thought is that during its growth in the womb, a child may somehow never develop vocal cords at all. Because wouldn't weak or underdeveloped ones still be capable of producing some degree of sound?

I force the boy's mouth open and stare into his throat, distantly aware that even if he does have vocal cords I won't be able to see them. Even if I could I wouldn't know what healthy ones looked like, though I suspect it would be fairly obvious if they were injured.

I let his mouth close. His restlessness has passed and he slumbers peacefully. Centuries ago I would have found him beautiful, would not have been able to resist stealing a kiss from his gently parted lips, longed for the day when Orlouge would tire of him when I could be there to comfort and lie with him. But now my only interest lies with his minor ugliness, with what stops him from being a perfect creature like all the others of our race. But I do not desire him as a bedmate. I desire him as test subject, a thing to research.

"He is remarkable isn't he?" Zozma has materialized beside me.

"Indeed," I agree, though my application of the adjective differs from his.

"Seems you've taken quite a fancy to him Nusakan. It's been centuries since you've lingered so long over another's beauty. It would be cruel of me to even consider taking him from you, once Orlouge has finished with him." Zozma kneels down beside me and brushes a silky red-blonde lock away from the silent mystic's face. "An exceptional beauty. Nothing short of perfect. And so tempting lying here all vulnerable and soaked in blood. I think it may be a good long while before anyone other than Orlouge receives the privilege of this boy's company."

For a moment I consider telling him the truth. That the boy is mute, flawed, damaged and maybe because of Orlouge himself, who may still destroy his new creation upon discovering this. But I decide not to. He'll learn soon enough. For now it will remain my secret, catalogued and hidden away with all the names and stories long forgotten.

I wonder if Orlouge will tolerate imperfection.


	4. la chauvesouris

Well it's only been oh…a year. But who's really keeping track? I'm gonna try my darnedest to be more diligent about adding to this. Silly life distracting me from my writing…

* * *

**la chauve-souris**

The air is thick, cold, damp and miserable. Nothing like this would ever occur in Facinaturu, particularly not in the gardens of the Château Aiguille, which is the most a lot mystics ever see of "outside". Time was that I was never commanded to stray far from the gardens, but those times are long past and now I am forced to mingle with the masses and carry out the orders of my lord in regions far beyond the splendor of the castle. I can't believe Rei wishes for such a life.

"It reeks of humans," I say, unable to help sucking the sour air in through my nostrils.

"Delightful isn't it?" Rastaban says, looking around happily and smiling that disgusting, smirky grin of his. Sometimes I swear I could kill him for it.

"It's the smell of things slowly dying," he says, turning about to face one of the guards who have come with us to this region. "Do you enjoy it as well?"

"Don't be daft!" I yell. I am already fed up with Rastaban's poetics and our mission has only just begun. "He can't answer you and you know it." He is asking the opinion of the silent one, who I determined was indeed an actual and not elective mute, when I bit him hard and drained him close to dry and he did not cry once, though his face contorted with pain. His silence displeased my lord and I wished to make him pay for it. Zozma claims Rei lay with the boy once and try as she might, she could not get so much as a low moan out of him, let alone the screams of ecstasy I've often heard her get out of others, Zozma included. Her promiscuity disgusts me, nearly as much as Zozma's does. I disgust myself when I allow anyone else to touch me. I wish to be only for my lord.

I see the silent one cock his head to the side and shrug his shoulders in response to Rastaban's question. I want to hit him across his deceivingly pretty little face, a face that conceals the imperfections within his body. How dare he encourage Rastaban?

"There you see Ciato," comes Rastaban's inevitable comment. "He can respond, so long as only ask "yes or no"questions. Unfortunately in this case he doesn't know and can't elaborate for us."

"Will you shut up?" I want to finish this mission and be on our way. I can't possibly get out of the company of Rastaban soon enough.

"Possibly." Rastaban laughs, looking around again. "So this is Koorong…funny."

I don't want to ask him, but find myself doing so anyway. "What's funny?"

"This used to be such a bright and beautiful place. The road leading into the central city was almost legendary for it's splendor, all immaculate cobblestone with marble statues framing the gates. Don't you remember the last time we were here? It must be over a century ago…"

"I don't." And that is the truth. I don't find human society or anything crafted therein to be worth encoding to my centuries worth of memories.

"Well I do," he says and I know he means it. Rastaban likes remembering stupid details about worthless things like the gates of human cities and what roads are made out of. His appreciation of human aesthetics is sickening. The only mystic I've ever known to be more interested in humans than he is was that Nusakan, who was now supposedly somewhere in this region.

"It's so dark and dingy now," Rastaban continues. I'm sure he knows that I have no interest in his observations but he doesn't care.

"Of course it's dark," I say. "It's night. Nothing is light at night, there's no sun."

"Ah but the moon and stars can shine brightly in their own way. I know they used to be brilliant here." He smiles again, looking up at the sky as if he can recall how it once looked.

I stalk past him. If I don't get a move on we'll be standing here for hours while Rastaban points out every miniscule detail that has changed since the last time he visited the region. The guards fall in line behind me and I am relieved to see that at least my lackeys understand that we are here to complete a mission, even if my partner thinks we're here to write laments for the downfall of human society.

"Lord Ciato," one of them begins, "shall we separate from you while we travel through the market place? It is just ahead."

The stench of humans has grown stronger and, without seeing it, I know that he is right. "Shouldn't the humans be asleep right now?"

Rastaban laughs. "Are you really that disconnected from humanity that you don't know they are just as fond of night as we are? There's drinking to be done, love affairs to be had." He has caught up to us.

Ignoring him I say, "Yes," responding the guard's question. "We don't wish to be too conspicuous. We'll travel separately and regroup beyond. According to our records there is a tavern right before the entrance to the city underground. We'll rendez-vous in front of there."

"Honestly Ciato. That place is bound to be crawling with humans. Safer to head straight for the underground and find each other once we arrive."

There's no real reason for caution. After all, I could easily over power any number of them without the assistance of my obnoxious, though formidable, companion or that of the silent guard, who in spite of his inability to phonate is not to be taken lightly on the battlefield. But we mystics don't like to cause a scene. It has nothing to do with an affection for humans, at least not in my case as I would happily do away with the whole filthy lot of them. But my lord seems to find some value in their ever-dying bodies, and I do not question his motives. But try as we might, we don't exactly blend in with humans. Even in our ragged disguises we still possess some other-worldly charm in the eyes of mortals. The feeling is definitely not mutual.

Rastaban spares us additional commentary, and I think I must have gone deaf. Only the sound of human voices, chattering and bickering in the streets ahead assures me that I have not. We walk towards the commotion and separate. I stroll through the streets as inconspicuously as possible, dodging ambling drunks and giddy groups of obnoxiously loud human females. Some of their glances linger favorably over me and I move quickly past to avoid conversation. People are singing in the streets, weaving their way along the sidewalks, leaning on lampposts or friends to avoid toppling over. If mystics could get physically ill in the way humans do, if we ate food that was capable of being thrown up, I am certain that at this moment I would. It takes all of my willpower to keep me from phasing out and teleporting to where I imagine the end of this chaos to be.

I practically run there, spot the stairs leading towards the city underground, and am instantly at the bottom of them. The guards trail a few steps behind and, as expected, Rastaban meanders his way down to us several long minutes later.

"We're now looking for a manhole," I saw, refusing to let Rastaban share any of his observations about human nightlife before continuing this assignment. "It's one of those flat, round, metal things on the ground leading into the modern underground artificial water channels."

"I know what a manhole is," Rastaban insists. "And they aren't water channels. They're sewage removal systems."

If I wasn't aware that it was exactly the response he wanted, I would have deigned to glare at him and grace him with some angry retort. But I know he delights in making me angry, so I ignore him and continue speaking, unfazed. "Near the entrance to the _sewers_ should be a rundown building, once in use by humans but now in an uninhabited part of the city. This is where those low class cat mystics claim to have seen a mystic lord."

"Poor creatures. Over absorbed the energy of beasts and they've evolved into beasts themselves. Or did our clan simply learn the balance of surviving on a combination of human blood and monster energy and all others failed to do so?"

I wonder why he cares. It doesn't matter. We are the superior race of mystics. The only others that even slightly compare are the water mystics. At least they are capable of coherent thought and conversation. Most other mystics are like beasts, though they acknowledge us as having descended from similar bloodlines and respect Orlouge's court. But they never increase in power or number. They do not possess the ability to make new mystics by draining human blood, or if they ever did, they have long since forgotten it.

We find our destination with little trouble, save for the fact that, given the filthy condition of the building's exterior, it is a feat to distinguish the door from the wall. The silent one does so, and pushes the door open, leading our procession inside. It is dark and musty within, but it doesn't take me long to spot Nusakan, busying himself with…painting the walls?

"Nusakan," I begin. I want to be cold, to demand an explanation for his behavior, to remind him of the punishment that may await him for fleeing Facinaturu, but all I can say is, "what are you doing?"

"Can't you see? White washing the walls. It was quite the task tearing down all the cob webs in this place." He continues painting and I continue staring. "How did you find me?" he asks finally. "Not that I didn't expect you to."

"Some low class mystics reported to Orlouge that they had seen a mystic lord in this area. Naturally we were sent to investigate, and assumed it was you. Since you're the only lord that's left the region for any reason other than an assignment in the last…well ever," Rastaban says.

"How clever of you," Nusakan says, the corners of his lips curling into a smile. "And are you here to drag me forcibly back to Facinaturu? Because I assure you, I will not come willingly."

I hesitate to answer as it dawns on me that our mission is unclear. Orlouge sent us to find Nusaken and determine what it was he was doing out amongst humanity--not to bring him back to the Château. Unless he was plotting something against Orlouge and he certainly wasn't stupid enough to do that as opposing our lord is tantamount to suicide, and the death of a mystic literal obliteration.

Just as I am about to insist he reveal his intentions, since he has clearly taken up residence in this dingy place, Rastaban casually asks, "So, what are you up to here Nusaken? Planning on luring pretty young humans back here and starting your own harem? Lots of nice looking ones wandering the streets, easy targets too when they're plastered and carrying on so."

"Of course not," Nusakan replies. His eyes wander noticeably to silent one, who seems to shift uncomfortably as Nusakan studies him. His look is not amorous as one might expect, since even I, who desire only my lord, am not immune to the silent guard's pleasing looks. The deserter's look is…curious? Curiosity is not an emotion mystics feel.

I cannot stand his nonchalance. "Then what are you doing here? Aside from cleaning up this wretched, abandoned building on the periphery of a sewer? Why would you, a respected mystic lord, subject yourself to living within the stench of humans?"

"I have this young creature to thank actually," Nusaken says, almost cheerfully. "You see when our silent friend here came to the Château Aiguille, oh it must be twenty or so years ago now, I found myself wondering whether or not he was ever capable of speech. I wondered if some ailment had rendered him incapable of speech in childhood or adolescence."

"I don't understand," I say, voice betraying my annoyance. I am angrier perhaps, because Nusakan was one of the only lords I have not found to be intolerably unfaithful to Lord Orlouge. I have swayed and hated myself for it every time, but not he, not to my knowledge.

"I should think it's rather obvious," Rastaban says, wandering past Nusakan and sitting on a rudimentary bench by an already whitewashed wall. He puts his feet up on what I think is a very low table. "So tell me _Doctor_ Nusakan, do you plan to cure these diseased humans who come crying to you for help, or merely acquire knowledge about the diseases afflicting them?"

"Perhaps, some day I will venture to help prevent premature human death, yes. But if that day ever comes, it won't be for centuries. For now, my interest in them is entirely for research." He smiles at the silent one again. "I only wish I could have seen your human self and known if he was as mute as his mystic counterpart."

Disgusting. Not only does he want to live amongst humans, but he wants to be in frequent close quarters with sick humans, diseased, suffering bodies, sniffling, coughing, aching, vomiting, probably the closer to death the better. And the worse the smell of them. What purpose could that possibly serve for his lord?

"But why Nusakan?" I find myself asking aloud. "Do you wish to find a means of causing these diseases, to create an epidemic amongst humans, wipe the world clean of them so our Lord Orlouge can reign supreme?"

"Not at all," he replies. "I wish merely to know. We mystics have long forgotten any knowledge of illness we had had in our human lifetimes. It does not affect us. I don't expect you to understand. You especially Ciato will never understand what I see sickness. Acquiring knowledge has always been my personal greatness." Irritatingly, he smirks again. "Besides, Orlouge would be miserable if I wiped out humanity. No more pretty boys and girls for him to add to his collection."

Rastaban laughs and I clench my fist, willing myself not to conjure my sword and run him through. Not that merely stabbing him would do any lasting damage, but it would feel good. I bark commands at the guards to leave and inform Lord Orlouge that our mission is complete and Nusakan is no threat to us.

"You are hereby banished from Facinaturu, Nusakan," I say with authority.

"That's excellent news, seeing as I had no intention of returning."

"I would suggest you stay out of our lord's site for as long as your existence continues," I say.

"And I suggest you tell Orlouge that I will be here studying human diseases and if he really does not wish to see me, he should stay away from this place," Nusakan retorts, voice suddenly sharp.

My lord would never venture to the likes of this place. Not unless the rest of the world had fallen and here was the sole place where any living creature, monster or human, from which he could draw energy survived. But I do not say this. I will not grace the deserter with this knowledge.


End file.
